


you don't do it on purpose but you make me shake

by papered



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-06-18
Updated: 2011-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-20 12:33:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papered/pseuds/papered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames wakes up five years in the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one.

When Eames goes to bed, he's alone. In between jobs with nothing pressing to do, he's back in his bedroom in his London flat for once, idly contemplating if he should head out for a holiday somewhere while he has the time (Cannes is nice this time of the year, he knows – or maybe Prague) as he falls asleep.

 

When he wakes, it's the middle of the night. Also, there's someone next to him.

It's only years of training that stops Eames from stiffening, because the last thing he needs is for the person beside him to realize that he's awake. Mind on overdrive, he tries to figure out what the hell is going on. With the lights off and curtains completely drawn, it's almost pitch dark in the room, and he can't really make out anything about the person beside him. There's a distinct lack of pounding in his head though, which rules out alcohol being involved. The only feasible explanation is that he'd gone and picked someone up at a bar last night - but the fact that he never brings strangers back to his actual flat aside, Eames is pretty sure that's something he would have been able to recall.

Carefully reaching for the gun he always keeps under the bed, he's just managed to grab it with his right hand without moving too much when the body next to him shifts.

"Eames?" comes a voice from the vicinity of his left shoulder.

" _Arthur?_ " Eames asks after a long pause, because he would recognize that voice anywhere. Sitting up, he quickly reaches for his totem, letting the familiar ridges confirm that this is reality first before clicking on the bedside lamp. When light floods the room, he's greeted with the sight of a half-asleep figure.

Arthur barely has his eyes open, and there are lines on his right cheek from where he'd been pressing it into the pillow. "Eames? What's going on?" he asks, voice thick with sleep. He's wearing what looks like Eames' spare set of pajamas, although Eames can't fathom any situation where Arthur would willing wear something mustard yellow. At the moment though, Arthur doesn't seem to mind. He looks comfortable, and his hair is everywhere, the messiest Eames has ever seen it.

Now that the initial adrenalin rush has passed, the sight makes an oddly warm feeling swell in the pit of Eames' stomach.

"Darling," he says gently. "Not that I'm complaining or anything, but what are you doing here?"

"What are you talking about?" Arthur says, obviously trying to sound irritated, but the effect is quite ruined by the fact that he yawns halfway through the question and his eyes are half closed. "Look, Eames, it's like three in the morning. Can we talk about whatever it is when we're both awake?"

Eames considers protesting for a moment, because he's fairly certain that the fact he can't remember what Arthur's doing here is something that needs to be discussed rather urgently. But he's secretly a little delighted by the small line that's appearing on Arthur's forehead as he frowns at Eames, and so he finds himself agreeing instead.

He sinks slowly back into the bed, pulling the covers over them both. To his surprise, Arthur immediately turns towards him and throws an arm around his waist. Eames relaxes automatically, almost without his permission, because even if he has no idea what the hell's going on, his subconscious seems quite certain in the fact that because it's _Arthur_ , nothing horrible is going to happen.

Sighing a little, he carefully lets their legs tangle together. He falls asleep again to Arthur's warm breath against his shoulder.

~

The next time he wakes, it's to a pair of lips pressing against his own.

"Good morning," Arthur's voice says, and then Eames is being kissed within an inch of his life. He lets out a small moan involuntarily, feels Arthur smile against his lips, and because Eames is weak in the face of temptation, he lets himself kiss back, just for a minute.

Arthur sighs quietly against him, warm and pliant and lovely in his arms. With what feels like enormous self-restraint, Eames places his hands lightly on Arthur's shoulders and pushes, just a little. Feeling Arthur pause, he takes advantage of the other man's confusion to ease himself back.

"Eames?" Arthur asks. He looks a little questioning, but comfortable and assured - like he belongs here in Eames' life instead of having appeared in the middle of the night.

Eames open his mouth, then pauses as he wonders how he's going to word this. "Darling. What are you doing here?" he asks finally. It's blunt but it gets the point across.

Arthur stares at him. "I live here."

Eames laughs. "No you don't, don't be silly."

"Eames. I've been living here for almost a year."

Eames look at him, disbelieving. "You can't be living here - this is my apartment." He would say more, but then he catches sight of Arthur's expression and the words dry up in his throat.

Arthur's staring at him like he can't believe what Eames is saying. There's a long terrible pause, during which Arthur just looks at him and Eames can't help but feel like the room has become noticably colder.

"Is this your way of telling me you don't want this relationship to continue anymore?" Arthur says eventually, and when he speaks, his voice is quiet in a way Eames has never heard before. It throws him off balance, because it's so unlike the always-composed Arthur he knows to show any sign of uncertainty.

Something tightens in his chest. He's more confused than ever, but his every instinct is telling him that something is horribly wrong - because anything that makes Arthur look like that could never be right. Eames has been in a dangerous profession for years now, and his gut feelings have never led him astray yet.

"Arthur," he says, making sure to keep his voice soothing and unthreatening. "I think you're misunderstanding me. I literally don't know how you're here. You can't have been living here for a year, because I think I would remember if I'd let you borrow my flat."

There's another pause.

"Eames. I'm not borrowing your flat - we've been living here together." Arthur says. He has a small frown on his face, but as much as what Arthur is saying makes no sense, it's secondary to the relief Eames feels at seeing that terrible uncertainty gone from Arthur's expression.

"Then why don't I remember any of this?"

"I'm taking you to the hospital," Arthur says, brows knit with worry. Before Eames can protest, Arthur is getting up, and Eames watches as Arthur opens the closet to pull out a crisp white shirt and a charcoal suit Eames doesn't own. In one fluid movement, he trades Eames' spare pajamas for the shirt, buttoning it up without looking before he selects a dark red tie Eames certainly does recognize.

"Isn't that my tie," Eames says, more a statement than a question. It should be the last thing he's noticing, all things considered, but it's worth it for the pleasure of watching the slight flush appear on Arthur's cheeks.

"Eames, get dressed," Arthur says, ignoring the question as he pulls the strip of material effortlessly into a half-Windsor.

Eames does so.

~

The hospital turns out to be entirely useless.

It probably has something to do with the fact that Eames can't actually answer their questions honestly when they ask him about what he remembers. He almost laughs when they ask if there's been anything stressful happening in his life lately - after all, he can't exactly tell them that his job involves forging into strangers and killing himself every time he wants to wake up. His life is the definition of high-stress.

When he and Arthur leave three hours later, they're no closer to an answer than they were at the start of the day.

Arthur looks almost frantic. He'd spent the entire way back talking, asking Eames if he remembers this or that, and every time Eames is forced to admit that he has no idea what Arthur is talking about, Arthur's grip on the steering wheels tightens a little more. Now that they're back in the flat, he's pacing the living room like a caged animal, anxiety obvious. Eames is again struck by how very different this Arthur is from the one he remembers, how much freer he is in expressing himself - or just expressing himself around Eames, it might be more accurate to say.

Except maybe different isn't the right word, because for every way that Arthur's different, there's ten ways he's familiar. It's not that Eames _isn't_ worried. It's just that - maybe if Arthur was a different person altogether, it would be easier to focus on how he himself is feeling. But this Arthur has all the same mannerisms, all the habits and idiosyncrasies Eames remembers. When he frowns, his forehead wrinkles up exactly the way Eames' Arthur does, and irritation still makes his eyes flash. It's not that Eames isn't worried, but in the face of this Arthur who is familiar in all the ways that matter, his own concerns feel secondary, somehow.

"Arthur," he says, putting a hand on Arthur's arm the next time the other man walks by, and ignores the way Arthur stiffens at his touch. "You're making me dizzy. Just sit down for a second."

"I met you in Copenhagen. We were both working the Sylvester job but on opposite sides, and the first time I saw you, you shot me in the shoulder." Eames meets Arthur's eyes. "Does any of that sound familiar to you?"

"You forgot the part where you complimented my ass," Arthur says wryly, and Eames gives an internal sigh of relief.

"Of course I did, sweetheart - those trousers are my favourite." He gives Arthur his most charming smile, and is gratified to see Arthur relax a little.

 

It's a slow process, but they work their way through the timeline, with Eames recounting his life in bits and pieces until they come to the point where Eames' memories end.

"You don't remember anything past the inception job?" Arthur pauses for Eames' nod before continuing. "That was five years ago."

"What do you mean, five years ago?"

"What year is it, Eames?"

"2010."

Arthur looked at him carefully. "It's 2015, Eames."

For the first time since he'd woken up that morning, Eames feels a jolt of shock. "That can't be right."

Arthur grabs the newspaper off the coffee table and tosses it at him, his action seemingly careless, but his eyes never leave Eames.

"Then where the fuck have I been for the last five years?" Eames runs a hand through his hair, then sits down heavily on the couch. "This can't be right. I swear it feels like yesterday, Arthur."

Arthur doesn't reply immediately, but the hand he puts on Eames' shoulder is warm and solid. "I'll call Dom and Yusuf, ask them if they've ever heard of anything like this happening. Maybe it's a chemical - I know you did some testing for Yusuf. That was almost three months ago, but it might be a delayed reaction."

Eames nods, not sure what else he could say, although it occurs to him now that it's strange for Arthur's first reaction to be to take Eames to the hospital rather than call his contacts. "Why didn't you call Dom first?"

"Dom?" Arthur looks at him, seemingly puzzled for a second. Eames sees the moment when understanding crosses his expression, and again, can't help the stray thought that he'd never been able to read Arthur like this before. "Eames, Dom is more or less retired now. We see him a couple of times a year, but he's busy with his kids – James and Philippa are both in school now."

Eames supposes that would makes sense, considering how the inception job had wrapped up - he'd just never really considered how things would naturally evolve five years down the line.

He resists the urge to bury his face in his palms, taking a deep breath instead. It helps, a little, and if nothing else, they have a course of action now. Hopefully, Yusuf had just screwed something up with his chemicals, in which case Eames was going to kick his butt later, and everything would be fine.

Sitting up decisively, he ignores the pool of dread still sitting in the pit of his stomach. "Well then, that's settled. What do you say we go for some food? We still haven't had lunch, and I'm starving."

He doubts he's fooling Arthur with his smile, but Arthur takes the cue just like Eames had known he would.

"After you, Mr. Eames," he says, gesturing to the door, and lets Eames lead the way to the fish and chips place two blocks down.


	2. two.

Eames has always been a little charmed by Arthur.

It's not like he's hopelessly in love or anything, god no – he's just a little attached, one could say. Physically, Arthur is undeniably attractive, all long lines and sharp angles, and Eames is repeatedly entertained by his snide comments and unexpectedly sly smiles. He's always been attracted to wit and intelligence – qualities that Arthur possesses in excess – and, well. In his line of work, it's not easy finding someone who you trust not to sell you out, but someone who's also competent enough that you won't be inadvertently putting a target on their heads by forming ties with them.

Arthur – well, Arthur is the best at what he does. They've worked on and off together for years now, and they're on level ground. Eames has no desire for a relationship – that's a possibility he's never even entertained since getting into his current business – but Arthur's fit and sharp and, with a little cajoling, clearly willing to be persuaded into something with no strings attached. As far as Eames is considered, that's perfect.

Except five years down the line, something's obviously happened, and judging from Arthur's reaction to everything, it's pretty clear that whatever they are, it's definitely more than just friends-with-benefits. In fact, it looks pretty damn long-term, and the thing is – Eames doesn't know what to do with relationships. He can flirt better than anyone and he's certainly no stranger to sex, but he hasn't bothered with anything more for years.

Relationships can become a liability far too easily – and the proof of it is right in front of him.

If someone had informed Eames ahead of time that all this was going to happen, Eames would have predicted that past the initial shock of it, Arthur would be fine. It would be stressful, but that's the thing about Arthur - no matter what you throw at him, he'll always seem unfazed and take it all in stride. This is something Eames has come to take for granted. If someone fucks up and a job goes to hell, Arthur will be there to watch his back, hands steady even as all of their careful planning falls apart.

But this Arthur - this Arthur is different. This Arthur is softer around the edges, and looks at him with plainly worried eyes. This Arthur is a careful mix of the steely resolve and vulnerability. His tongue is as sharp as Eames remembers, but sometimes he grips Eames' shoulder just a little too desperately. Sometimes, when he thinks Eames doesn't notice, he looks at Eames as if searching for something precious.

Eames can't tell whether or not Arthur finds what he's looking for.

~

Arthur calls Dom, then Yusuf, then a few of his other trusted contacts, but no one seems to have any answers for them. Yusuf is insistent that none of his experiments should have induced amnesia, or had any effects on memory at all, for that matter, but he promises to look into everything again.

Eames is agitated, then worried, then frustrated – but slowly, over the course of a month, he learns to take it in stride. It still bothers him, of course, that he can't remember anything that's happened to him in the last five years, but he's a practical man. Yusuf says he's working on it, and there's nothing Eames can accomplish by going into hysterics.

Which isn't to say life isn't weird. His older self (except not really, it's just him, isn't it? He _is_ his older self.) may have learned to live with Arthur over the years, and they've apparently established some sort of routine in their daily lives, but it's not something Eames is familiar with. Arthur is careful, of course, to not cross any personal boundaries, but even Arthur is only human, and some awkwardness is inevitable.

They keep touching to a minimum, but they still share the same bed. Arthur had offered to sleep in the living room at first, but considering that there's no quick solution in sight, it seems both unfair and foolish to Eames to have Arthur sleep on the less-comfortable couch when the bed is clearly big enough for two.

He says as much, and Arthur agrees, if a little warily. The first night, Eames falls asleep after some turning and tossing, but when he wakes up to use the washroom in the middle of the night, he finds the other side of the bed empty, and Arthur sitting with a cup of coffee in the kitchen. Eames pauses, hidden from sight by the shadows of the hallway.

If this was five years ago, he would have joined Arthur without a second thought. As it is, he doubts the other man would want his company right now.

Eames goes back to bed alone.

 

This continues for a little over a week. Eames doesn't wake up in the middle of every night, but it's clear as day that Arthur is looking steadily worse every morning. By the eighth day, the bags under Arthur's eyes have seemingly tripled in size, and even the caffeine pills he knows Arthur has been taking more often than advised doesn't seem to have any effect.

When they go to sleep that night, Eames stares at the ceiling for a full ten minutes before sighing and turning to pull Arthur close – because he's not a monster and it's obvious that Arthur isn't adjusting to the situation quite as well as he'd like to pretend he is. Arthur stiffens under his touch, but Eames ignores it, wrapping an arm loosely around Arthur's waist. He lets their bodies tangle together before pulling the blankets up to cover them both.

Arthur relaxes in increments until he's pliant in Eames' arms.

~

One thing Arthur is insistent on is that they stop taking jobs until Eames gets his memory back. Eames knows that Arthur has a point, that he doesn't remember a lot of possibly-critical information, but it also means that he's bored out of his mind with nothing to do.

He spends his free time painting, and then cooking all three meals each day because Arthur is apparently incapable of going near the kitchen without setting the whole flat on fire. Eames doesn't mind though – it's not like there's anything else he can do, and it keeps him occupied, if nothing else.

He'd gone out to a bar exactly once, at the very beginning, but the expression on Arthur's face when Eames had automatically flirted with the cute bartender had stopped him short. He might not feel whatever it is Arthur feels, but he's not a complete bastard and, at the very least, Arthur is a friend.

So now he stays in his (their) apartment, and it's possible that sixty-year-old Mrs. Patterson from two suites over has a more exciting life than him.

Arthur must have sensed Eames' dangerous levels of boredom, because before Eames can actually expire from it, he's presented with two tickets to Paris. "Holiday. Ariadne's invited us," Arthur says by way of explanation, and honestly, Eames doesn't really care a whit about the details as long as they're going out to do _something_.

 

They stay for two weeks. Ariadne hasn't changed much in the last five years, it seems – she enthusiastically ushers them in, and barely an hour has passed before she's psychoanalyzing them without hesitation. To distract her, Eames' suggests going out for dinner. Effectively derailed, Ariadne changes the topic to the new Italian place she'd discovered, and Eames spends dinner listening to her cheerfully give him all the gossip he's missed out on. Arthur is mostly quiet, but he looks relaxed, and more than once, Eames catches his lips pulling up into a half-smile.

By the time they finally make their way back, it's late, but Ariadne eagerly shows Eames around her modestly-sized flat nonetheless. Her rooms are sparsely but interestingly decorated, and it's clear that she's done well for herself.

"You have pets!" Eames says when she shows him her desk, looking at the two tiny goldfish swimming around the small tank next to a stack of books.

Ariadne beams as she comes over to stand beside him. "Aren't they cute?" she coos. "I got them two years ago. The one making strange faces at you is Eames, and the other one's Arthur."

Goldfish!Eames blows a stream of bubbles at at them before chasing after goldfish!Arthur. Eames stares at the way his namesake flicks his tail from side to side in his pursuit, and wonders if Ariadne is trying to tell him something.

~

 

Life goes on.

A month drags into two, and then three. Eames calls Yusuf every week for updates, on the off-chance that he's discovered something, but the replies are always negative. Eames is a pragmatic man, and he knows that even if Yusuf _does_ end up providing some sort of explanation for everything, it doesn't mean that he'll be able to fix anything. If all signs point to him not getting his memories back – well then, he'll just have to live with it.

He finally manages to cajole Arthur into relenting on the job front after a few more weeks, on the argument that there's no guarantee he's going to recover his memory any time soon, and they can hardly sit around twiddling their thumbs until then. Besides, he's not an invalid – he just needs to be updated on what he's missed.

Their first job is an easy one – typical corporate espionage – and it goes off without a hitch. Eames watches in satisfaction as a Mr. Jones from Company X unhesitatingly leads them to a safe containing the information Company Z has hired them to obtain. The money gets wired to them two hours later.

After that, Arthur sighs and lets him selectively choose their jobs.

 

At some point, it occurs to Eames that he's settled in. He doesn't know when exactly he goes from always feeling slightly out of place to being relatively adjusted to it all, but it's so gradual a transition that he doesn't even realize until Arthur asks him to bring back Chinese takeout one day, and Eames orders Arthur's favoured Hainan chicken rice without even thinking about it.

A few months ago, he hadn't even known that Arthur _liked_ Chinese food.

When he gets back to the flat, he finds Arthur curled up on the couch with his laptop resting on his legs and the indistinct murmur of the TV in the background. Arthur looks up distractedly at his entrance, giving him an absent smile as his eyes turn back to the computer screen.

"Just give me a second," he says, and Eames nods in assent, settling himself down next to Arthur before proceeding to dig through the takeout boxes for his beef noodle stir-fry. He flicks through the channels as he eats, but there's nothing interesting on. Unconsciously, he finds his gaze wandering back to the man beside him instead.

Arthur's brows are furrowed in concentration as his fingers fly across the keyboard, but the rest of him is as relaxed as Eames has ever seen him. He's wearing faded jeans – _Arthur in jeans!_ , Eames' brain thinks gleefully – and a worn t-shirt, and his legs are tucked beside him in a position that Eames is convinced can't be as comfortable as Arthur is making it look. He doesn't even have socks on, and Eames has a sudden urge to stretch out Arthur's legs and put them across his own lap.

Eames has no idea where that stray thought comes from.

To distract himself, he leans over so that he can see the laptop screen. "What are you doing?" he asks, blinking at the Excel screen, because they're in-between jobs and there's certainly no research to do.

"Just keeping track of some contacts," Arthur says, still not looking up. "Hang on, I'm almost done."

"Well, hurry up then, your chicken is going cold."

After dinner, Eames insists on a Doctor Who marathon, mostly because there's not much else to do and he has five years' worth of episodes to catch up on. Arthur makes a token protest, but Eames isn't fooled – he sees the smile Arthur hides behind his hand when he thinks Eames isn't looking.

Arthur falls asleep first, about six episodes in (which is admittedly longer than Eames had thought he would last), and his head somehow winds up against Eames' left shoulder. For a second, Eames considers moving him, but he might wake Arthur in the process, and besides, it's not uncomfortable for him or anything.

He doesn't know when he himself drifts off, but the next thing he knows, he's lying sideways on his couch, there's a blanket wrapped around his body, and there's daylight streaming through the windows into the living room. Also, his back hurts.

"Ow," he says as he sits up, stretching out his arms above him to try and work out the knots in his shoulders. He thinks he smells coffee from the kitchen, but before he can go investigate, Arthur shows up and hands him a cup of Earl Grey – two sugars, a splash of milk: exactly how he likes it.

Eames hums happily into the cup. "You're too kind, darling," he says appreciatively, the endearment falling from his mouth without a second thought, and the only reason he realizes is because Arthur visibly stiffens.

Eames puts down his tea, and wonders if he should apologize. He's been calling Arthur a broad assortment of endearments for years and years now – at first, just to annoy the other man, but by now it's become second nature – but it should have occurred to him that it would be different now, for _this_ Arthur. To Eames, it's just a habit, but it would've actually meant something to this Arthur, when this Eames – the Eames that he's not – had said it, and it's undoubtedly insensitive of him to keep calling Arthur all these things he doesn't actually mean.

"I'm sorry –" he starts to say, but before he can continue, he's cut off.

"It's fine," Arthur says, voice quiet. "Don't worry about it."

What does that even mean? "No, Arthur, listen to me," Eames insists, shaking his head. "I shouldn't have said that. It slipped out, but I'll stop from now on –"

"Eames." Arthur just stares at him for a moment, as if looking for something Eames can't see, before something in his expression softens. "It's been months – chances are, we're going to have to learn to live like this. So it's okay. Do you know what I'm saying?"

Eames doesn't, not entirely, but he thinks he understands the gist of it, so he nods hesitantly.

Arthur smiles suddenly. "Besides, you've been calling me all that since two weeks after you met me. You shouldn't have to change, especially when I don't mind."

"You know that I wouldn't mind if you _did_ mind, right?" Eames asks, because he needs to get his point across. Their whole situation so far has been about compromise, but Eames can compromise too – it doesn't always have to be Arthur.

Arthur nods. "Rest assured, Mr. Eames, if I had any problems with anything, you would be the first to know," he says, dimpling just a little, and Eames knows Arthur well enough to know that the other man isn't being _entirely_ truthful, but it's good enough for now.

"Well then. Breakfast, I think?" Eames says, deliberately changing the subject as he stands up and wanders towards the kitchen. "You haven't burned anything down while I was sleeping, have you?"

"Screw you," Arthur says, glaring, but follows him into the other room, and Eames, who's always known how to look for the little details, can hear the amusement in his voice.


	3. three.

Ariadne contacts them about a job, and they go, because it's Ariadne. She's quite a well-heard-of figure by now in the dreamsharing world, although she took some time off to start on her PhD. Sometimes, Eames wonders why she even _wants_ a PhD, considering she's probably going to spend the rest of her life in dreamshare, and Eames is quite certain everyone else in their dubious and very illegal business couldn't care less as to people's academic backgrounds.

The job takes them to Marseille, and Eames has the delight of hearing Arthur dust off his actually-quite-impressive French. Unfortunately, as far as Eames is concerned, that's about the only perk of the job.

It's not a difficult extraction overall. The landscape might have to be a little unusual, but Ariadne has that covered, and their extractor seems comfortable enough. The problem is, Eames is supposed to forge the mark's daughter. Unfortunately, she passed away in a car accident just a month ago.

It's not the first time Eames has had to forge a dead person. It's much more difficult because he doesn't have anyone to observe, but he's done a dead grandmother and a brother, the former on two separate occasions. In all those cases though, the deceased has been dead for a few years, at least, and it's easier that way because the memories are usually less precise in the mark's mind, and little idiosyncrasies can be explained away without too much difficulty.

This time though, she's only been gone a month. To her father, that would barely be any time at all. He would remember her exactly the way she was, and Eames wouldn't have any room for little hiccups. If his forge fails, the entire job would probably fall through.

 

They have a little over two weeks to prepare, and uncharacteristically, Eames spends all his time at his desk. There's no one to really tail, although he'd followed the mark and some of the daughter's friends around for a day at the beginning before concluding that they were going to be of no help. Instead, he pores over academic transcripts and government records and twitter history, jotting down notes and making associations and trying to reconstruct this girl in his head from words and numbers alone. It's terribly imprecise work - impossible, another might say - and as always is the case with forging the dead, he'll have no idea whether or not his forge will be anything like the actual girl until they're on the job.

At the end of each day, Laurent, their extractor, usually leaves first, followed by Ariadne, who requires some sort of food intake every four to five hours. Arthur tends to leave around half past nine, at which point he will insist that it's time for dinner for both of them. Eames had gone along the first three days, but by day four, his research feels shakier than ever, and he can't afford the time to be tired or hungry or restless.

"You go ahead first, darling," he says, giving Arthur a half-smile. "I have a little more to finish up first, but I won't be too long."

Which is a blatant lie, because two and a half hours later, he's still at his desk, and a steady migraine has been developing for the past half an hour. With a sigh, he puts down his pen and buries his face in his hands, trying to massage away some of the headache.

Behind him, the warehouse door clicks open. "What happened to _I won't be too long_ , Mr. Eames?"

It's only quick reflexes that have him catching the paper bag Arthur tosses at him - which turns out to be an order of fish burger and fries. Arthur settles himself down into a chair, giving him a small smile when he looks up in surprise, and Eames' stomach chooses that moment to growl loudly and make its presence known.

Humming happily into his bite of burger, Eames shrugs. "The research's just not coming together as smoothly as usual."

"Because she's dead?"

"Partly. The thing is, it's still too soon. The memories are too clear for the father, but I don't have a person I can observe." He pushes some of the papers on his desk forward. "All I have are records, and it's hard to build a person out of that."

"And there's no one else you can forge?" Arthur asks, leaning over for a closer look.

"Unfortunately not. Lefebvre's an only child and estranged from his parents. We know he's not the most social fellow, and he divorced his wife twenty years ago. His daughter is the only way in."

Arthur nods, eyes still on the paper. "I downloaded some files from the daughter's computer earlier that I can send you, if you want."

Eames looks up in surprise. He'd tried to remotely gain access to the data from the computers in Lefebvre's house the first day without success, but computers had never exactly been Eames' area of expertise. "Thank you, that would be very helpful," he says. "I would have asked you for intel earlier, but I figured you wouldn't have anything on the daughter." He stretches out his protesting back with a sigh. "I didn't think you needed it for your part of research."

"I don't," Arthur says simply. And before the implications can sink in, he stands up, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles from his suit. "Coming?" he asks, heading for the door.

 _Oh,_ Eames thinks, and follows him.

~

 

On the Friday of the last weekend before the job, Eames finds himself directed out of the warehouse without being given a choice about it.

"You're coming with me, Mr. Eames," Arthur says, his hands warm on Eames' shoulders, and Eames lets himself be guided partly out of surprise.

"You _do_ know I still have hours of research left to do," he says conversationally 20 minutes later (which is kind of a lie, because there's not much else he can do at this point, and he's fairly certain Arthur knows this), when he finds himself ushered to a table at _Chez Jeannot_ after listening to Arthur ask the maitre'd about a reservation. The restaurant is surprisingly cozy, and Eames settles into his seat with a sigh.

Arthur ignores him in favour of looking at the menu, eyes flicking quickly through the pages. "What are you having?" he asks finally, raising an eyebrow at the way Eames is apparently examining the patterns on the ceiling.

Eames shrugs, nonchalant. French has never been a favoured language of his, and he doesn't particularly feel like squinting his way through the menu. "Choose for me, darling," he says, taking the time to relax back into his seat instead.

He's expecting something good, considering it's Arthur, who is as picky (or detail-conscious, as Arthur likes to insist) with his food as he is with everything else. What he doesn't expect is for his filet mignon to be completely delicious, cooked medium rare just the way Eames likes it. The meat is juicy and covered in red wine sauce, and Eames sinks his teeth in with exaggerated delight. Across from him, Arthur laughs, shaking his head at Eames as he cuts neatly into his chicken pastilla.

Dessert is mille feuille, while Arthur has _pain au chocolat_. They talk about irrelevant things: traveling and philosophy and the last book Arthur read, and before Eames really notices, two hours have passed and the restaurant is slowly but steadily emptying out.

When the bill comes, Eames reaches for it, but is intercepted before he quite makes it. "My treat," Arthur says, reaching into his wallet for his credit card, and Eames lets him.

They take a taxi back to the hotel afterward, where they go their separate ways. As Eames steps into the shower, he can't help but think that it's a little odd suddenly having the whole room to himself after months of sharing, but it's one thing to share when there's only one bed in the flat, and quite another to purposefully book the same room for two, so they'd ended up with different rooms a few doors apart. Scrubbing himself clean, he pulls on the sweatpants he'd brought along before collapsing onto the bed with a sigh.

It's not until he's drifting off to sleep that it occurs to him that if it had been anyone else, Eames would've called the evening a date.

~

 

The job is a success, but not without a few complications.

Lefebvre seems a little hesitant at first, but eventually buys into Eames' forge like they'd hoped and leads them to the safe where the information they want is hidden. Eames manages to get it open with a few clicks, at which point he quickly rips into the envelope for the papers he has to commit to memory.

Unfortunately, at this point, the rogue projections break in. Sadly for Eames, Laurent is busy playing the concerned bodyguard, and Arthur should be dealing with the projections around the perimeter. He's on his own.

Eames keeps his eyes on the papers, because as long as he gets through this, the job is done - although the fact that he's probably going to get torn apart while he's busy reading isn't going to be fun, he thinks with a wince as a projection throws an ashtray at his head. It crashes into the wall right by his ear. Jumping to his feet, Eames dashes into the next room and slams the door shut behind him, abandoning the strappy heels on his feet while he's at it but keeping the forge.

It doesn't delay things for long though. A second projection kicks down the door and throws a bottle of wine while a third advances with a butler's knife and Eames dodges again with a small sigh, but not before he feels the spray of glass against his arm. Two pages left.

There are more projections now crowding in the doorway, and Eames is just considering the wisdom of locking himself into the adjacent bathroom - it'll give him a few extra minutes, but he'll have nowhere to run when they break in - when Arthur appears, gun in hand and looking barely out of breath.

"Do hurry up Mr. Eames, we don't have all day," he says a minute later, and there's a crooked half-smile on his face like there aren't motionless projections littered all over the floor.

Eames throws his head back with a laugh, an uncontrollable fondness welling up inside him. Looking back down at the papers in his hands, he finishes rereading the last two paragraphs just as the timer runs out.

 

~

 

Eames has always considered himself a bit of a vagabond, flying to a different city every few months just for a change of scenery and living out of hotels even though he has some sort of property in five different countries, so it's a bit of a surprise that he finds himself thinking it feels nice to be home after barely two and a half weeks in Marseille. In fact, it's surprising to realize that he's come to think of his London flat as home at all, considering the fact that before the last few months, he's only stayed here a month and a half at the most out of every year.

Just because there's no job and they're back in London doesn't mean things stay uneventful for long though.

It's about a week later when Eames wakes for no apparent reason in the middle of the night. Blinking into the darkness, it takes him a minute to realize that Arthur is tossing and turning beside him, blankets kicked off and brow heavy with a sheen of sweat.

A nightmare, Eames thinks. He himself hasn't had one in about a decade now. “Arthur,” he says, tentatively reaching forward to shake the other man awake.

Arthur opens his eyes, but doesn't seem to be quite aware of the fact that he's awake. His face is unnaturally pale, and Eames can see the sweat matting his hair. There's a glassy look in his eyes when he looks up, as if he's seeing something else entirely.

Eames hesitates. He'd assumed that Arthur, like everyone else in their business, didn't have natural dreams anymore, but clearly he'd been wrong. Instead of giving in to the urge to swear, he reaches out and pulls Arthur close instead, still half-expecting resistance, but Arthur lets him without protest. Up close, Eames can feel the slight tremble of his body. “Hush now, it's alright, darling,” he says, keeping his voice soothing.

“Eames,” Arthur finally says shakily, his voice unsteady, and Eames, knowing better than to say it had just been a dream, tells him instead, “It's fine, it's all over now.” Arthur doesn't reply, but the fine tremors don't go away. He loosens his hold slightly in case he's making Arthur uncomfortable, but to his surprise, Arthur pulls closer again almost involuntarily, his grip tightening around Eames' shoulder.

He's never seen Arthur this out-of-sorts before, not even after Eames had woken up without his memories, or that time years ago when Arthur had ended up shot in the left hip in Harbin. Then, Arthur had been panicked, angry, in unimaginable pain - but Eames has never had to deal with this plainly frightened Arthur he doesn't recognize. A part of him realizes he'd never thought Arthur even _capable_ of being like this. Despite the last few months and the knowledge that some version of himself must have inspired emotional attachment in Arthur, the instinctive part of him still thinks of Arthur as the most frighteningly independent person he knows. The Arthur in his head has always been untouchably perfect, needing no one but himself - which doesn't make him without warmth or incapable of camaraderie, but he's airtight and impervious to Eames in all the ways that matter.

Looking at the figure slowly shaking apart beside him though, Eames can't help but think that maybe, the Arthur in his head has never really been Arthur after all.

 

Eames doesn't know how long they sit there, but the sweat has cooled against Arthur's skin by the time Eames pulls him up. “Come to the kitchen, Arthur, I'll make you a cup of tea,” he says firmly, not about to be refused as he pulls the other man along. Arthur makes a token protest, but Eames ignores him, knowing that Arthur is never going to get back to sleep without calming down properly.

He makes a pot of steaming Earl Grey, handing Arthur a cup first before turning to fix his own. When he turns back, Arthur is watching him, the look in his eyes unidentifiable to Eames.

“Is the tea alright?” Eames says, knowing it's an inane thing to say but not knowing how else to get Arthur responding.

Arthur nods, but doesn't reply out loud. When he finally speaks, all he says is, “You used to do this before too, you know.” His eyes follow Eames around the room, unwavering.

Eames might have found that comment disconcerting a while ago, might have been discomfited by the reminder that Arthur knows parts of him he himself can't remember, but that fact feels a little less important now. He shrugs inelegantly instead. “Do you dream often?” he asks, settling himself down into the chair opposite Arthur.

Arthur shrugs. “Not particularly. They come around occasionally though, and they're usually nightmares.” He keeps his tone light, as if he's merely commenting on the weather. To the untrained eye, he would be convincing - his hands are steady now as he takes a sip of his tea, his demeanor seemingly unconcerned.

Eames has made a career out of people-watching though, and it's obvious Arthur is trying his best to downplay the whole thing. For a moment, Eames considers going along with it - but then he sighs and puts down his cup. "Arthur. Are you sure you're all right?" he says simply, meeting Arthur's gaze and not looking away.

Arthur stares back for a heartbeat before he audibly exhales, tension draining out of him as he slouches down in his chair. "I will be," he says quietly, sounding tired, and this time, Eames can tell he's telling the truth.

They sit in not-quite-comfortable silence for a while, Arthur apparently lost in his thoughts and Eames taking the moment to watch Arthur, before the tick of the kitchen clock reminds them both that it's still the middle of the night. Eames stands, pouring the rest of his tea down the drain. "Are you coming back to bed?"

He's expecting Arthur to decline - he knows that if the situation were reversed, he himself would want some space - but to his surprise, Arthur stands up with a sigh. "I suppose I'd better. It's not like I'll be able to get anything done," he says, putting his empty mug down by the sink.

 

They don't talk about it after that, but when Eames stumbles into the kitchen the next morning after sleeping in, he finds bacon and egg in the basket from the diner around the corner on the table, complete with breakfast tea and a scribbled note.

 _Out doing research. Be back by lunch time._

Thanks.

-A

 

~

 

 

Eames' birthday falls on the second week of July.

To tell the truth, he'd sort of forgotten about the occasion himself, except he's examining the calendar one day to see if they can fit in the offer for a job in Durham when he realizes that his birthday is only a few days away.

Eames doesn't know quite what he expects. He doesn't have any past experience to rely on, but Arthur doesn't seem like the type to do big celebrations. They've been busy lately with jobs and research, and so Eames is sort of just expecting a day off to sit around and do nothing – maybe lunch out or something at the most. Which is why he's a little stunned when, on the morning of his birthday, Arthur wakes Eames up early, pushes him into the car, then proceeds to drive them both to the beach.

There's nothing close by, and Arthur has apparently chosen a less popular beach farther away, so it takes a good two hours to get there, but it's worth it because when they do, the weather is gorgeous and the waterline continues on for as far as the eye can see. Eames thinks he can make out a group of people far off in the distance, but they're barely visible and practically on the other side of the beach. For all intents and purposes, they're the only ones here.

“Take off your shoes,” Arthur says suddenly, interrupting his thoughts.

Eames turns to him, sure that he's misheard.

Arthur had traded in his usual Ferragamo loafers with regular dress shoes that morning, and Eames watches in astonishment as the other man proceeds to take off his footwear until he's barefoot in the sand. Having lived with Arthur these last few months, it's become clear that there's more to him than the prim-and-proper point man, but it's still surprises Eames to see Arthur so relaxed in an environment like this.

Arthur gives a crooked smile at his expression, dimple tucked high in his left cheek and hair blown out of the place by the wind. He seems younger here, somehow, his limbs loose and lazy as he gestures for Eames to do the same. Eames gives a put-upon sigh on purpose, knowing that Arthur can see right through him as he peels off his own shoes and socks and throws them in the general direction of the car.

The sand, warmed by the sun, is pleasantly squishy between his toes.

 

For lunch, it turns out that Arthur has packed them a picnic basket. Eames seems to be lacking words a lot today, because once again, he just gapes as Arthur pulls out a big plastic box from the trunk of the car. He recognizes the wine-red napkins from his favourite overpriced sandwich shop, which is located a good 45 minutes away from their flat.

“Oh, _Arthur_ ,” he says without thinking, something in his stomach warming without his permission at the knowledge of Arthur going to all this trouble for him. Arthur ducks his head a little as he hands Eames his usual short rib sandwich, as if embarrassed, and Eames can't help the sudden wave of fondness he feels.

The sandwich is as delicious as he remembers, the bread thick and substantial and the caramelized onions and emmental cheese simply melting on his tongue. He eats it slowly, savouring every bite and ignoring the way Arthur is shaking his head and laughing at him. For dessert, they have fresh peaches. Eames has no idea where Arthur bought them, but they're just the perfect ripeness. He moans a little when he bites into one, the sugary tang exploding over his tongue. A little bit of juice trickles down his forefinger, and Eames follows it with his tongue, determined not to let a single drop escape.

When he looks up, he finds Arthur looking at him, expression intense. Suddenly feeling embarrassed at how messy he's being next to Arthur's impeccable eating manners, he quickly finishes the rest of his fruit, cleaning the pit in his mouth before spitting it out.

By the time he's done, Arthur has looked away.

 

After lunch, Eames insists on lying in the sand for a while, uncaring of the fact that he's getting it all over himself. Arthur makes a token protest but follows suit beside him without too much complaint, and it occurs to Eames that Arthur is _indulging_ him. He entertains himself with that thought for a while, laughing a little at the unlikely idea while keeping his eyes closed and letting the sun warm his face.

"What," Arthur says with a long-suffering sigh.

"Nothing at all." Eames takes another deep breath before sitting up, one hand raised to block the sun from his eyes. “Wait, darling, you're burning,” he says with a laugh, nodding at the way the tip of Arthur's nose is turning slightly pink before reaching for the bottle of sunscreen. He manages to place a generous dollop in the center of Arthur's face before Arthur snatches the bottle from him with a scowl and proceeds to spread it out with quick, deft strokes.

When he's done, Eames sticks out his own face in an exaggerated manner. "You're not going to return the favour?" he asks in mock hurt, then rubs at his shoulder when the sunscreen bottle hits him. "Ow, that hurts."

"Don't be an infant," Arthur says, rolling his eyes, but he's smiling just a little, as if he can't keep his mouth from twitching up, and Eames isn't fooled at all.

 

They wander around aimlessly for a while, just watching the waves lap at the shoreline and breathing in the salt in the air. Eames feels... not happy, exactly, but it's something close. He can't help but feel lighter, somehow, as if some weight he hadn't previously been aware of has been lifted off his shoulders and now he's this close to lifting off the ground and floating away like a hot air balloon.

Arthur leans towards him to say something, but his voice is lost in a sudden breeze and Eames is left with just the image of him – leaning close with eyes at half mast, the shadow of his dark lashes against his eyelids and the slightest hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

He's fucking stunning like this, and all Eames wants to do is close the distance between them and kiss the breath out of Arthur.

The thought freezes him in his tracks, and he swallows, throat suddenly dry. Finding Arthur attractive is no surprise - or at least, it shouldn't be. Maybe it's the unexpectedness of it though, the way the idea of it has snuck up to him this time (because Eames had consciously stopped considering the possibility of anything happening with Arthur since the question of emotional attachment had come up). Whatever it is though, Eames has the abrupt, worrying impression that there's something intrinsically different about his own train of thought now.

"Eames?" Arthur asks, interrupting him, and Eames drags himself out of his thoughts. He’s expecting a raised eyebrow or a frown, but Arthur’s just looking at him, expression puzzled and open and something about it makes Eames almost reach out for him.

"Sorry darling, say that again?" he says instead, catching himself at the last minute and pushing his thoughts to the back of his mind. He flashes Arthur as charming a smile as he dares, hoping that it’s enough to distract.

He’s fairly certain it doesn’t work, but Arthur repeats himself as requested, and the moment passes.

Eames isn't naive enough to think that _that_ \- whatever that was - is over, but the sun is warm on his back and Arthur is a solid presence at his side. Later, he'll think about this moment again and wonder what's changed, but for now, they're out here celebrating his birthday, and that's good enough for Eames.


End file.
